


no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

by hippocampers



Series: always a well-dressed fraud [2]
Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocampers/pseuds/hippocampers
Summary: “So I take it there was nothing wrong with your swimmers in the end?”Don chuckles. “It appears not.”





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> two alternate endings - pick your favourite
> 
> title from take me to church (hozier again)

“She’s got your eyes.” 

It’s true; even just hours old, the little girl cooing in the clear bassinet has eyes of cornflower blue just like her father. A strange feeling he’s learned to call paternal pride swells in Donald’s chest.

“She does.”

“Have you got a name yet?”

“Evelyn,” Don says, barely tearing his eyes away from his daughter. She snuffles just a little, and his heart skips a beat. It’s instinct to offer out his thumb to her, and though she’s done it many times already in her short time on Earth, he marvels as tiny fingers grip the digit, tight as anything. 

“That’s beautiful. It suits her.”

Don nods. He’s biased, but already Don can tell she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. He’d always brushed off the idea of a father/daughter bond being so strong, but from the moment Evelyn entered the world, he’d fallen head-over-heels and had to admit his mistake. “Thank you.”

“So I take it there was nothing wrong with your swimmers in the end?” 

Don chuckles. “It appears not.”

“You did a nice job with the surrogate. Blonde. She’ll probably grow up the perfect mix of you and David.” Miriam tells him, cooing down at the baby girl.

“That doesn’t matter to us. Healthy and happy and here is the important thing,” Don replies, and the woman he used to call his wife smiles, a little wistful. It stirs a long-buried guilt in his stomach. “Are you and Bill still trying?”

She nods, a soft sigh leaving her lips. “Yes. All those years blaming you and it might be me causing the problem.”

Don frowns, settling a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t. You can’t blame yourself. For any of it.” They’ve had this discussion a thousand times over, and for the most part, it’s accepted. Not her fault his attention lay elsewhere, not her fault they couldn’t conceive, not her fault that he’d had to leave. 

In the end, the break-up had been fairly amicable. Miriam was, he expects, relieved to have been freed from a sexless marriage with a man who couldn’t love her the way she deserved. He only regrets not letting her go sooner, for her sake. Perhaps then, she’d have found Bill sooner, increased the chances of that baby she so desperately desired. Sometimes, Don lies awake at night, wracked with shame and guilt that he was living the life Miriam deserved, waiting for his carefully-crafted world to fall away beneath his feet. 

For now, it seems to be solid. He knows he doesn’t deserve it nonetheless.

“I should go. Bill’s got a doctor’s appointment.” Miriam smiles, and presses a kiss to his cheek. It leaves a lipstick print, an echo of the past. Her perfume is less floral now, more mature. He wonders when that changed. 

“Thank you for coming. I appreciate it,” Don tells her, meaning it now. “It’ll happen for you, too. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

Miriam shrugs on her coat, and nods. “I hope so.” She gives the bassinet a final gaze, and a little wave to the child inside. “Look after her.”

Don doesn’t need telling twice. “We will. Do visit.”

“Maybe,” Miriam says, vaguely, and slips out of the door. She won’t visit. Perhaps it’s for the best. He returns his attention to the crib once more, distracted enough that slender arms wrapping around his waist startle him.

“You look smitten,” David chuckles. He rests his chin on a sheepish Don’s shoulder fondly to look at his daughter, that same expression of pure adoration reflected on his own face. 

“I am,” Don murmurs, twisting to press a kiss to David’s lightly stubbled cheek. In David’s arms, he feels less like the worst man on Earth. “Truly, I am.”

 


	2. two

“She’s got your eyes.” 

It’s true; even just hours old, the little girl cooing in the clear bassinet has eyes of cornflower blue just like her father. A strange feeling he’s learned to call paternal pride swells in Donald’s chest.

“She does.”

“Have you got a name yet?”

“Evelyn,” Don says, barely tearing his eyes away from his daughter. She snuffles just a little, and his heart skips a beat. It’s instinct to offer out his thumb to her, and though she’s done it many times already in her short time on Earth, he marvels as tiny fingers grip the digit, tight as anything. 

“That’s beautiful. It suits her.”

Don nods. He’s biased, but already Don can tell she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. He’d always brushed off the idea of a father/daughter bond being so strong, but from the moment Evelyn entered the world, he’d fallen head-over-heels and had to admit his mistake. “Thank you.”

“So I take it there was nothing wrong with your swimmers in the end?” 

Don chuckles. “It appears not.”

“How’s Miriam? Tired, I expect.”

Don nods. “It was a long labour, apparently. I’d have thought anything over two hours would be long but 53 is pushing it a bit.”

“Pardon the pun,” David nudges him in the ribs gently, grinning a little. “You look the doting dad already. I’ve never seen you like this.” 

That’s a lie, and they both know it. That expression of love, of fondness. David’s seen it before, on multiple occasions. A different type of love, but just as intense. A sickening thought runs though David’s mind – I wonder if he thought of me, when it finally worked – and he has to clear his throat to feel less filthy and wrong. 

There’s a companionable silence, broken only by the soft sounds of the new-born, before Don speaks up.

“We can’t carry on our... thing.” He doesn’t meet David’s eyes, fixed instead on his child, his flesh and blood. David would call him a coward if not for the sensitive ears of the little girl. She need not know the truth so soon.

“I know.” And he does know. He’d known the second Don has turned up at the hotel with bright eyes and a sonogram in shaking hands. He’d decided from that moment that if Don wouldn’t end it after the birth, David certainly would. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, despite 7 months of preparation. “She’s your priority now, I understand.”

Don nods, and finally lifts his eyes to meet David’s own. He looks torn, but determined. He’s a family man now. David hesitates, before leaning to press the lightest of kisses to the man’s cheek. He smiles, hollow, before pulling away. 

“I should go. I’ve got a... date.” A date with a bottle of vodka and a shit documentary on antelopes, the type old Don would have adored. He moves to take his scarf from the hooks, and ignores the way Don’s eyes are burning holes through his jumper. 

“Thank you for coming, I appreciate it,” Don says. David doesn’t turn around. “Please do visit. I want her to know her uncle David.” It’s like a knife in the gut. David puts his hand on the door handle, and allows a final glance.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, and slips away, leaving Don alone with his daughter. David thinks of the cottage he calls home, thinks of the proximity to dodgy gay bars and their even dodgier clientele. He won’t visit often. No need to have Depressed Uncle David the Hermit tarring Don’s family portrait. Perhaps he’ll write. 

Perhaps not.

 


End file.
